


Time Difference Like A Lifetime

by spatialvoid



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 02, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6299227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spatialvoid/pseuds/spatialvoid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or, what happened between when Daniel left and when Peggy stayed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Difference Like A Lifetime

It’s all too easy to leave New York. 

* * *

“We’d like you to head up our new Los Angeles office,” he’s told, and something in his stomach churns, but he ignores it.  “We saw your work on the Leviathan case and were very impressed.  Your choice, but we’d love to have you.”

It’s not a difficult choice, but it’s a hard one. 

A promotion is a simple thing, straightforward and advantageous, and if it means he won’t spend his days sitting fifteen feet away from Margaret Carter, watching the curve of her red-painted lips and the flutter of her eyelashes every time she blinks, it might even be a good thing.

On the other hand, it means he won’t get to spend his days sitting fifteen feet away from Peggy Carter, and he’s not sure he can bear the thought.

* * *

He goes, anyhow.  California is warm, and his leg aches in the New York cold, and Peggy Carter turned him down.  New York feels hopeless, like fragments of a lost dream, of a life he could have lived.   A life in which the world around him may have been cold but his heart could have been warm.

And if it’s the other way around in California, well, what does it matter?

No one knows him and there’s a beautiful sort of loneliness to that. 

* * *

He’s in the middle of interviewing some scientist for a position in the lab (Samberly, the man’s resume says, with a mouthful of a first name), when Rose walks into his office, a note in her hand.

She had jumped at the chance to come to California with him, eager to get away from New York’s shadowed buildings and rigid, bustling culture.  (“I’ve always wanted to learn how to surf!” She’d told him, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t had to suppress a good-natured laugh.)

She quietly sets the note down on his desk and leaves, and he looks at Samberly and says “Give me just a moment.”

_Message from Agent Margaret Carter, SSR New York:_

_Call me back as soon as you find the time, I hope you’re doing well in California – the New York office isn’t quite the same without you._

He looks away from the note, up at Samberly and then down at his resume.  Scientifically, he’s perfectly qualified – maybe even overqualified –, though he seems a bit lackluster in terms of personality.  “You’ve got the job,” he says, and he hopes he won’t regret hiring this man simply because he wants to get him the hell out of his office.

Samberly mutters his awkward, effusive thanks, and then he leaves, Daniel left alone to his thoughts and the note on his desk, staring at him.

She’d turned him down and he’d left to get away from her, to get away from all those months that he’d spent looking at her and wondering what he’d done wrong, if he’d done anything wrong at all.

And now this.

_The New York office isn’t quite the same without you._

* * *

He doesn’t call her back.

* * *

All it takes is one particularly strenuous field mission, and he’s out for a week, his bad leg worse than it’s been since those first days after he got the prosthetic, since his first days on this side of the war. 

Rose takes one look at him on his first day back and says, truthfully (and maybe a little bit out of line), “You need more physical therapy, Chief.  You’ll never be able to live with yourself if you’re out for a week every time things go haywire.”

He thinks about the ache in his good leg and the phantom pain in his bad one, and he nods, sighs resignedly.  “I know.”

* * *

At first glance, Violet is everything Peggy isn’t.  Blond hair, blue eyes, tan skin, warm smile.  And she throws him with her ease, with the way she helps him walk, helps him run, like she does this kind of thing every day.  (And he knows that it’s because she does, but when it’s him, it feels like more than just something she does every day – it feels like something she does for _him_.)  She throws him with her gentle laugh and steady hands, with the way she’s cruel and uncompromising, yet lovely. 

Every moment he spends with her makes him feel more human, more at ease, more at home in a body that’s felt nothing but unfamiliar since the war. 

Maybe it’s her, maybe it’s what she does for him (to him), but he knows that he looks forward to seeing her every week, looks forward to the soft wave of her hair and the crinkling smile that spreads to the corners of her eyes when she laughs. 

* * *

One week, as he’s leaving the hospital, leg less aching than it’s been in years, he turns around.  He looks at her, and he feels something in his heart shift, something that he hasn’t let move since he left New York.

“Do you want to go to dinner with me?”  He asks, halfway on an impulse, and she stares at him, surprised, and then she smiles, her eyes lighting up more than he’d expected.

“I’d like that,” she says, and she scribbles her phone number on a scrap of paper, handing it to him.  “Call me, tell me when and where.”

He exhales, feels all the tension in his muscles release (feels like a whole man for the first time since he lost his leg), and he grins.  “I’ll do that.”

* * *

He comes into the office the morning after dinner with Violet to find a note on his desk, written in Rose’s sprawling, untidy script.

_Message from Agent Margaret Carter, SSR New York:_

_Inching closer to finding Underwood – wish you were here to assist.  I must have missed your return call.  Call me back as soon as you can find the time, please.  I hope California is suiting you._

He looks at the note, and he thinks about Violet.  About soft blond hair and blue eyes and the way she’d kissed him the night before, soft and gentle and hopeful. 

_I hope California is suiting you._

He thinks it might be.

(He tries not to think about _wish you were here_.)

(And he doesn’t return her call.)

* * *

“Why does Peg keep telephoning you?”  Rose asks him one morning as he walks into the theatrical agency, and he ducks his head, looks anywhere but at her.

“I don’t know,” he says, and he’s not lying, but he’s not telling the whole truth either.  “Did she call again?”

She nods, holds out a slip of paper.  He scans it, his chest tightening anxiously.

_Message from Agent Margaret Carter, SSR New York:_

_I’m starting to think you’re ignoring me.  Please, do call.  Thompson’s a dreadful bore._

Rose quirks an eyebrow at him, and he knows his face has gone pinched and red.  “Are you?”

He looks at her, raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“Are you ignoring her?”  Her tone is piercing, and he wishes that he could deny it all, say that he truly hasn’t found the time – but work has been slow the past few weeks and he’s running low on excuses.

He swallows and nods so quickly Rose can barely tell he’s moved his head at all.

“You shouldn’t leave her hanging, Chief,” she says, looking at him like she’s disappointed in him, and he feels the same aching burn in his stomach that he felt as a child whenever his mother scolded him.

“I met a girl, Rose,” he says softly, and she squints at him, looks him over, sizes him up.

“Okay,” she replies, her lips forming a gentle smile, her tone careful and diplomatic, “I won’t push.”

He nods tightly, gratefully.  “Thank you.”

* * *

Months go by before she calls again.  He’s moved forward – forward so astonishingly quickly that it feels like just yesterday that he was on a plane, touching down at the Los Angeles Airport, his head and heart aching.

He’s not aching anymore.

He’s got a girl – a lovely girl, kind and beautiful and brave – and a job, and a home, and while it feels like yesterday that he was on that plane, it also feels like it’s been decades.

Daniel can’t quite comprehend the fact that it’s been less than a year since he was in New York, less than six months since he met Violet, less than a lifetime ago that he was pining over Peggy Carter.

It all feels so fragile and distant, now.

* * *

He cooks dinner with Violet, and they’re laughing and she’s stirring a pot of stew and he’s got his arm wrapped around her waist and his chin resting on the top of her head and then he presses a kiss to her cheek and she turns around and kisses him soundly, a habit now, and he continues to wonder how he ever was anyone else, anywhere else.

* * *

One evening, he comes down to the theatrical agency, and Violet’s standing there, waiting for him, and Rose is on the phone.

“Hmm, yes, I’ll tell him,” Rose says, and he sees her look at him with sympathetic eyes as she sets the phone back down on the receiver.

“Anything important?”  He asks, and she looks at Violet, then back at him, tweaking an eyebrow, and she shakes her head.

“New York wanted to speak with you, but I took a message, told them you were busy.”

He nods tersely, knowing full well what she means, and knowing full well that he won’t answer the message.  “I’ll look at in the morning, if it’s not urgent.”  He extends his free arm to Violet, and she smiles warmly.  “You ready?”

He tries not to think about it.

* * *

_Message from Agent Margaret Carter, SSR New York:_

_I feel confident that we’ll have Underwood any moment now.  Take care of yourself._

Something in his throat burns the next morning when he sees the note on his desk, but he tries to put it out of his mind, tries to think instead about Violet and her blue eyes and the way she’s talked him into going to the beach with her the next weekend.

It mostly works.

(But in the back of his head, somewhere in between his conscious and subconscious minds, lurks Peggy Carter, with her wide smile and red lipstick and confident stride.)

* * *

He calls Thompson to ask him to send out one of his agents.  His L.A. team isn’t quite up to par just yet, and there’s enough trouble in this case for him to want someone a little sharper and more practiced by his side.

“I have just the man for you,” Thompson says, and he breathes a sigh of relief, hopes it’s a familiar face, hopes it’s someone he works well with.

* * *

What he doesn’t hope is to find Peggy Carter in his office come Monday afternoon, wearing a pale blue blouse and a shy, hopeful look on her face. 

“I did call,” she says, cautious but forcing, and his heart clenches as he thinks of Violet, thinks of her eyes the color of Peggy’s blouse. 

“I know,” he replies, almost whispering, wishing he’d never asked Thompson for a goddamn thing.

“On several occasions,” she says, and she’s pushing at him but her eyes are hesitant and soft and he’s never seen her like this before.

“I’m sorry,” he answers, and he means it, almost, “I, uh…”

“Why didn’t you return my messages?”  She asks, and he can hear the sadness in her voice and, god, she’s _disappointed._

She’s disappointed and he can’t bring himself to lie to her when she’s looking at him with all those questions in her eyes.

So he tells her the truth.

“Because sometimes a three-hour time difference feels like a lifetime,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper, and her eyes soften as she looks at his face, cautious, appraising.  Maybe a little bit sad.

* * *

When it comes down to it, he feels like he’s cheating on Violet just being _near_ Peggy.  She’s wearing a killer dress (red and tight, with a cutout right above her heart that shows her pale, freckled skin) and killer shoes.  She grabs his arm in a moment of fear, of shock, and his flesh burns, everything electric.

And later, when she asks him if he’d like a drink, he feels, momentarily, like he’s going to be sick, because he can’t (he _can’t_ ) bring himself to say no to her eager eyes and cautious smile.

“Maybe another time,” he says, and it’s right then that he knows he’s broken ground on the hole he’s going to dig himself into every time he looks at her.

* * *

The ring falls, and she catches it, and everything shifts, shatters.

“I’m very happy for you, Daniel,” she says, but her eyes are glistening with tears and there’s a tremor to her usually steady voice.  He feels his heart clench, his stomach churn.

Daniel loves Violet, he _loves_ Violet, but the look on Peggy’s face as she leaves his office is worse than any rejection she might have ever given him.

(And, _damn it_ , he doesn’t want her to go off on her own.  There’s too much uncertainty in this case for him to want her to do anything without him by her side.)

* * *

He knew, in his gut, that letting her go off on her own had been a bad idea.  The slashed tires and bullet casings only confirm it, and he allows himself a brief, frenzied moment of fear, of rage, of regret. 

But it’s only when he’s standing outside of Isodyne, the cops telling him that there’s no way there could have been any survivors, that he knows that he’s never going to be able to forgive himself if she doesn’t come out of this alive.

Exactly what he won’t be able to forgive himself for, he hasn’t figured out yet.  There are so many things.

* * *

The reappearance of Dr. Wilkes, incorporeal but still very much alive, incites something in him that he recognizes immediately as being shallow and petty, but the act of recognition doesn’t make it disappear.

You’ve got Violet, he tells himself, but it still stings, watching Peggy’s easy rapport with the friendly, brilliant, intangible (whole, uninjured, handsome) scientist.  He may be incorporeal, but Daniel knows that with Howard Stark involved, that won’t always be the case, and he feels a burning twinge of jealousy.

He tries to suppress it (with only moderate success).

* * *

“I thought we were a team.” 

“We are a team,” she says, insistent and agitated, “A wonderful team.”

“No,” he responds, and he knows that he’s about to dig himself exponentially deeper into this hole that he may never be able to climb out of, “we’re not a team.  If we were a team and you were thinking about pulling a stunt like this, you would have called me for backup.”

Ah, he thinks, so he’d approve of her committing a felony, as long as she didn’t leave him out of it.

That’s new.

* * *

He mucks up the proposal entirely, but the look in Violet’s eyes when she says yes is enough to, at least momentarily, banish all thoughts of Peggy Carter from his mind. 

* * *

She screams, and then she falls, fast and heavy through the air, and in the moment there is no time for him to think.  The sound that meets his ears when she hits the ground is like nothing he’s heard since the war, and it propels him towards her as fast as he can possibly move himself.     

“Peggy!”  He feels her name escape his lips in a frantic, panicked yell.  He’s moving forward, rushing towards her, and, oh, god, he can hear her breathing, heavy and pained and frantic, and while he hopes otherwise, he knows in his gut that you can’t fall like that and be alright. “Peggy!”

“Oh god,” he can’t breathe, he’s standing next to Peggy and there’s a rebar running straight through her, blood everywhere, and then he’s kneeling next to her and he can’t breathe, can’t think, can barely act, and he can’t lose her, not like this, not at all.  “Oh, god.” 

* * *

He doesn’t answer Violet’s question, but he knows that that isn’t the moment where it ends. 

It ended when Agent Margaret Carter walked into the SSR Los Angeles office weeks ago, when he looked at her and said “I’m in this with you ‘til the end” and then put a ring on another woman’s finger, when he left New York, when he ran away under the guise of a promotion but the reality of a broken heart.

“So you are, then,” Violet says, her voice aching but cold, and his heart breaks, because he loves her.  He loves Violet – but he’s been confronted by the blazing reality of a world without Peggy Carter in it and he knows he can’t come back from that moment, so he nods.  Almost imperceptibly, but he nods.  And she sees him.

She slides the ring off of her finger, gently pries his clenched fist open, sets it in his palm.  “I love you,” she says, and her voice is breaking with the heavy weight of her words, “but I can’t love you if you’re in love with someone else.”

He closes his fist again, swallows, looks at her, watches the tears stream down her cheeks, and thinks about how pure and good and right their relationship could have been.  “Nothing happened,” Daniel says, and even as he says it he knows it isn’t true – so much has happened.  He hasn’t kissed Peggy, hasn’t taken her home, but he’s looked at her like he wanted to, looked at her like she was his whole world, looked at her with the knowledge that if she died he wouldn’t be able to bear it.

Violet nods, her eyes narrowed and angry and sad.  “I know,” she says, and his mouth goes dry.  “I trust you.”

He closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, feels the cold, smooth metal of the ring in the palm of his hand.

“But you didn’t tell me,” she says plainly, and this is what breaks him, truly.  Violet, _cruel and uncompromising and lovely_ , his words coming back to bite him.  “You didn’t tell me.”

His heart is shattering along the whole life he’d hoped for, a life with small blond children and sunny Saturdays by the Pacific Ocean and Violet by his side, bright and constant and true.

“I love you,” he says, and his voice is cracking and there are tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes and he feels, even more than usual, like he can barely stand.

She looks at him, her mouth a tight line, tears still streaming down her face, and her words are choked, angry.  “It’s not that easy, Daniel,” she says, and something in him wants to stay forever, make promises he _knows_ that at this point he can’t keep, just to dry her tears and make her smile and fix this mess he’s made. 

“You can’t decide to make a new life for yourself,” she whispers, “building it on the foundation of your old one, and expect to keep them separate.”

It’s like a knife wound to the heart, sharp and piercing and accurate.  He looks behind her, at the stain on her sofa, and he thinks about this moment’s resemblance to a crime scene, thinks about the before and the after, the incriminating evidence, and he wonders how he ever thought he could attempt separation, because all of it comes back to Peggy Carter, always.

“I’m sorry, Daniel,” she says, and she’s crying now, really crying, her face twisted and ugly and so, so beautiful, “but you have to go.”

And as much as he still wants to stay, to murmur platitudes, conjure bald-faced lies, he knows he can’t plead with her, can’t patch things up and make them right, so he calls a taxi, walks out the front door, wonders if he can ever move forward from something as gory and terrible as this.

“I’m sorry,” he says, turning back to look at her, his eyes full of longing and regret, before the door latches closed behind him.

She looks at him, eyes swollen and red and disappointed, and she smiles, a sad, fragile smile, as the door swings shut.  “I know.”

* * *

Her hand is on his, warm and heavy and smooth, and _she leans._

So does he.

And they both know what would have happened.

(He had been content with Violet, happy – but this, this moment with Peggy, is something else entirely.  Not the presumably one-sided crush he spent so many months suppressing – this is both of them, together, tired of dancing around each other, both weary and both wanting.)

* * *

Vernon Masters threatens his friends, a seemingly vague, general threat, but he knows that while there may be trouble in this for Stark, or Jarvis, or maybe even Rose, what Masters is really saying is that Peggy Carter is a threat to the establishment, to the underlying chain of power, and that Daniel Sousa’s trust in her is not a roadblock.  It’s not even something to flinch at.

* * *

He feels… well, he doesn’t know how he feels, standing here in her bedroom, his back turned to her.  There are underthings scattered all over the sofa, silk and cotton and lace, and his face feels hot and flushed at the thought of what she’s doing behind him. 

(At the thought that maybe, one day, if the world doesn’t end and he plays his cards right, he might not have to turn around.)

* * *

“Oh, Mr. Jarvis, I’m so glad,” she says, and the relieved, peaceful look lighting up her face makes his heart feel like it’s going to swell out of his chest.

She covers the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand and looks at him, smiles.  “Mrs. Jarvis is awake, and she’s going to be alright,” she whispers, and he didn’t realize how worried he was until this moment, when he isn’t any longer.

“Oh, thank god,” he responds, his voice low and grateful, and she looks at him warmly, fondly, and while he hopes that they will never have a moment quite like this again, he knows better.  Their line of work leaves no room for a life without risk, without tragedy.

(But, he thinks, if she continues to look at him like that, he might be able to bear it.)

* * *

They’re standing in a hallway in Manfredi’s house, waiting for him to distract Frost, and she’s standing so close to him in the shadows that he can feel her breath on his face, warm and distracting. 

“Thank you for helping,” she says softly, her voice so low he can barely hear her, even with their close proximity to each other.

“Any time,” he whispers, and he reaches out his free hand and sets it on hers, but Peggy’s listening for Manfredi’s voice and she looks at him exasperatedly when he gently skims his thumb over her knuckles.

“Not now, Daniel,” she says in a hushed, frustrated tone, “I think he’s nearly ready for us.”

He pulls his hand away and she looks at him, her eyes going all soft and regretful.  “I wish there was more time,” she whispers, and while he knows she could just be talking about how long they’ll have to photograph Whitney’s room, the look in her eyes says she’s not.

(It says she’s sorry he left New York and sorry she mucked up his life in Los Angeles and sorry, more than anything else, that she can’t stay.)

It makes his throat feel tight and aching, so he swallows, looks away, and listens to the heavy footsteps thudding towards them.  “I know.”

* * *

He can’t quite describe the look in her eyes after the rift closes.  Relieved, he thinks, and then something else, something that makes his eyes narrow and his heart flutter and his brain go _oh, thank god_. 

Maybe even something akin to love.

* * *

“I could miss another flight,” she says breathlessly when they pull apart, faces flushed and lips swollen, and he thinks his heart might burst.

“More vacation time?”  He asks, grinning, and he pinches her side playfully.

She flinches but laughs, her eyes warm and content.  “A real vacation, this time,” she says, and the palm of her right hand cups his cheek.  He feels her run her thumb over his cheekbone, and he shivers, wondering how she manages to touch him so casually, like it doesn’t feel electric every time.

“Hmm,” he says, and she leans into him, her shoulder resting warmly against his chest, “I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

“You certainly deserve a rest,” Peggy says, her eyes sweeping over his face, and he knows she’s taking in the circles under his eyes and thinking about all those non-stop weeks they spent trying to stop Whitney Frost.

“So do you,” he replies, thinking about how it’s been barely any time at all since she took a rebar to the abdomen, how she’s been running full speed ahead ever since she got to California, and probably before.  He carefully skims his hand over where he knows the wound is, listens to her sharp inhale of breath. 

She meets his eyes knowingly.  “A rest might be nice.”

He looks at her, head suddenly full of questions.  “When _was_ the last time you took a breather?”

She swallows.  “I don’t know.  Sometime before the war.”

He lets out a wide exhale, not exactly surprised, but amazed.

“After…” she begins, but her voice falters, and he senses that they’re wading into sensitive territory, “after my brother died, after I joined the S.O.E., I plunged myself into work.  It seemed… it seemed the best way to resolve my grief.”

He nods, knowing all too well what she means.

“The problem has been,” she says, and her voice is all choked up, so he holds her tighter, gentler, rubs his hand up and down the length of her arm in a gesture meant to comfort, “that ever since there hasn’t really been a time when there was no grief to be resolve.”

He looks at her, watches her close her eyes, watches a tear roll down her cheek.  And then she opens her eyes and looks at him, blinking away the tears.

“Until now,” she continues, her voice shaky but hopeful, and he feels a smile spread wide across his face.

“Until now,” he repeats, and she smiles, too, a soft, hopeful smile that makes his heart feel warm and wide and new.

* * *

He wakes to the sun on his face and her hair, dark and silky, against the scratchy white of his sheets.  She’s awake, watching him, more relaxed than he’s ever seen her.  (And it thrills him that _he_ is the one she has chosen to allow herself to be this relaxed with.  Him, and no one else.)

“Good morning, darling,” she says, and her voice is still hazy and heavy with sleep, as though she’s only just woken.   

“Peg,” he breathes, and then she’s kissing him, her mouth soft and open, strong hands curling into his shoulders, and he must be dreaming – he _has_ to be dreaming – because this is too good to be real.

After a long moment, she pulls her mouth away from his and runs her fingers through his hair, sweeping it to the side, and he shivers at the gentle brush of her fingertips against his forehead.   She’s still half-asleep, he can tell, but her eyes are focused and intent. 

“I wouldn’t let anyone, anything, hurt you, ever,” she whispers after a few seconds, and while they’ve said many things to each other in the past day, they’ve not yet covered this.  It should fill him with fear, he thinks, with thoughts of rebar and rifts and guns held to heads, but all he can feel is relief – that they’re on the same page, that the question is no longer hanging over them like a knife that could drop at any moment.  

“I know,” he says, his hand ghosting over her arm, raising goose bumps, “and you know where I stand.”

Her hand is resting on his cheek, cool and smooth, but her eyes go tense, nervous, and he can tell that she’s running through all of the potential worst-case scenarios in her head at a million miles per second.  “There’s so much that could happen, Daniel.”

“Right now,” he says, and her eyes don’t leave his, “we’re here.  We’re safe, and we didn’t destroy the world.  The future is uncertain…” she bites her lip, looks at him with searching eyes, “…but the future is uncertain for everyone alive.”

“I do want this,” she whispers, her voice filled with a sort of hesitant decisiveness.

He quirks an eyebrow at her.

She swallows and closes her eyes, then opens them again and speaks, less hesitant this time.  “This.  You.  Days and nights and mornings and evenings.  Together.”

“Peggy,” he says, and his voice is low and filled with emotion, because she _loves_ him, and he’s not dreaming; this is real, “god, Peggy, I….”

She looks at him like a deer in headlights, not frightened, but overwhelmed and a touch confused by the tremor in his voice.  “Daniel….”

“The night you almost died,” he says, and he carefully touches the soft, puckering scar tissue on her back, her stomach, “I couldn’t see two feet in front of me.  Everything was you.”

She closes her eyes, her long eyelashes brushing the tops of her cheeks, and the air in the room is heavy with feeling.

“I love you,” he whispers, “and I know that it might be too soon to say it, but you have to know.”

Her eyes flutter open at his words, but there is no fear behind them now, only tenderness.  Only love.

“I want this, too,” he says, more certain than ever.  “All of it.”

“Daniel,” she says, and the air is light now, weightless, the sun still streaming through the windows like a promise, like a good omen. 

“Daniel,” she says again, and he pulls her close without hesitation, “it’s ours for the taking.”

* * *

In Los Angeles, she tells him later, it’s all too easy to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> My work _[There is much that I still want to tell you](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6213586)_ fits nicely in between the final two scenes of this fic, and I wouldn't be surprised if I find myself compelled to fill in the gaps more in the future. I can't get these two lovely dorks out of my head.


End file.
